The people of the inn came forward to meet them, in a little silent, solemn convoy.

In the doorway, clinging together, appeared the two bereaved women.

Mrs.Hudson tottered forward with outstretched hands and the expression of a blind person; but before she reached her son, Mary Garland had rushed past her, and, in the face of the staring, pitying, awe-stricken crowd, had flung herself, with the magnificent movement of one whose rights were supreme, and with a loud, tremendous cry, upon the senseless vestige of her love.
That cry still lives in Rowland's ears.

It interposes, persistently, against the reflection that when he sometimes--very rarely--sees her, she is unreservedly kind to him; against the memory that during the dreary journey back to America, made of course with his assistance, there was a great frankness in her gratitude, a great gratitude in her frankness.

Miss Garland lives with Mrs.Hudson, at Northampton, where Rowland visits his cousin Cecilia more frequently than of old.